


Wound Dwellers

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Queen of the South (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, archive warning: drunk james valdez, archive warning: hand kisses, archive warning: hardcore drug snuggling, archive warning: intense depictions of grief, archive warning: introspective james, archive warning: james makes teresa tea, archive warning: oh there's some angst, archive warning: post 3x07 blogging, archive warning: post 3x09 blogging, archive warning: post 3x11 blogging, archive warning: post 3x13 blogging, archive warning: sap fucking central, archive warning: tense switching, archive warning: therapy is hard, archive warning: unplanned pregnancy, archive warning: we want what we can't have
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: A random (unless otherwise stated) assortment of drabbles, fic requests, and whatever else, posted on Tumblr.





	1. 08.03.18

**Author's Note:**

> You can find all of these on Tumblr **[@floresdeldoza](http://floresdeldoza.tumblr.com)**. Please reblog if you can! xo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I got some real soft post-3x07 (J e r e s a) content for y’all. Very slight spoilers for S3. First QOTS fic, so ya know, no need to aggressively @ me._

She sleeps in the car on the way back from the meet with Taza, but it’s not restful, just enough to keep her body from completely failing. The ride to James’ house from the reservation is about 30 minutes, maybe, and she watches his hands clench around the steering wheel until she nods off, the sky steadily growing lighter around them.

They’re quiet when they walk through the house, each of them wandering to their own private spaces, looking for some brief respite before all the blood and bone comes rushing back in a flood. Teresa used to treasure these moments, but ever since Guero’s death, she’s been wary of the silence. Being alone doesn’t necessarily help, but being around James and Pote seems to make it worse.

With Pote, it’s all she can do to not think about the way he’d crumbled in that bathroom in Malta—how one of the strongest men she had ever known had been driven to tears in front of her; how it had been her  _fault_. How he had suffered, been tortured, had his identity  _stolen_ , and for what? For her? For this ridiculous quest she had undergone in a fit of childish vengeance? After Malta, it had been hard to avoid comparing herself to Camila—a woman who cared little for the people who had pledged their loyalty to her. In Teresa’s mind, having a person’s loyalty was not a thing to be taken lightly, or to take advantage of. It was to be held, kept safe, nurtured, and returned in kind. At the sight of him bruised, curled in upon himself, barely able to speak,  _How could she think herself any different?_

The doors to the balcony have swung open from the wind, and the sight of grey, swollen rain clouds in the distance serve to match her chaotic, sleep-deprived thoughts. Her body hits the cushion as if it were made of lead, and she can hear the echo of Pote banging about in the kitchen, probably making breakfast. Not as if she’d be able to eat it. The thought of food these last few days, it’s hard enough to keep from vomiting at the very mention of it.

Down the hall she notes the squeak of the shower, and inevitably her thoughts shift to the bareness of  _him_. Having seen him the once, it’s difficult to think of him, let alone look at him, and not remember. Like Pote there’s guilt, but it’s twofold. There’s the fact that she was sleeping with him while Guero had been held captive, silent—refusing to speak of her. And then there’s the crippling truth of his own loyalty, just as Pote had been harmed on her behalf, wouldn’t James be next? If it wasn’t today, it could certainly be tomorrow, or the day after that—a week later, a month later, it made no difference. They would all pay for her decisions, good or ill.

Had that been the last time she’d rested? It must’ve been. Curled into his chest before it had all gone wrong, with his arm draped over her shoulder as if it had always been there. For the first time since they’d returned from Mexico, she takes comfort in her memories instead of allowing herself to be tortured by them. She promises herself to return for the guilt later, but for the moment, as she unzips her boots, shrugs off her jacket, she remembers how James’ skin had felt against hers and she doesn’t hate herself for it.

In fact, she finds her mind calling out for it; running towards the safety of the memory, hoping against hope that it will convince her body to settle, to quiet, to fall back into a real,  _useful_  sleep. A warm breeze swirls about the room and she feels her skin prickle; smells the rain on the air as her eyelids  _finally_  begin to grow heavy, her head drooping towards her folded hands.

“Teresa,” he speaks softly, and she jerks upwards, her senses rushing back in an almost painful burst. As if summoned by her thoughts he stands over her with a steaming mug of what smells like tea in his hand. She must’ve fallen asleep for more than a few moments, because the rain has begun to lash against the windows, and the sky has turned a foreboding purple shade. “Sorry,” he speaks again, putting the mug down on the end table, “Everything’s fine, I didn’t mean to wake you up. Go back to sleep.”

“No, no,” she answers before she can stop herself, wondering, in the back of her mind, why she isn’t telling him to go. The man who thinks he knows better than her—who convinced Pote to lock her in a goddamn basement.  _He doesn’t know a damn thing_ , hisses the voice of the Queen, but it lacks her usual wisdom, and Teresa can’t help but wonder at the defensiveness in her tone, the underlying panic she’s never really heard before. “It’s fine. What are you doing?”

He takes a breath, and she can tell he’s mulling over what to say, but predictably, he answers with a gentle, “Just making sure you’re alright.”

The sincerity with which he speaks, it seems to poke and jab at the open wound she already has, this gaping, bleeding thing that feels as if it will never heal. At any other time, his asking after her comfort would be just that, but the guilt and pain of losing Guero is too fresh, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut, or risk letting the sudden bout of tears escape. And this was how grief was, was it not? One moment, you feel nothing, and the next, it hurts to keep from crying.

He hesitates, but only briefly before she feels his presence at her side, warm and tense. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“How can you say that?” she spits back, the tears flowing freely down her reddened cheeks. “He’s dead because of me.”

“You didn’t kill Guero, Teresa,” and she can’t help the flinch at the feeling of his hand coming to rest over hers, “Camila did.”

He goes to move away, interpreting her discomfort as a sign he should go, but yet again, her mind and body betray her, and she stops him with a, “Wait, please, I’m sorry—”

“What are you apologizing for?” he asks, stunned, his gaze earnest and endless, “There is  _nothing_  to be sorry for.”

Maybe it’s the resounding thunderclap in the distance, or the small “yelp,” from Pote who has probably nicked himself on a knife; maybe it’s James’ closeness, the softness of his voice, his forgiveness, but in that moment, the sobs suddenly wrack her frame with a power that she would find frightening if she had the ability to think—her throat begins to hurt with the force of it, her eyes straining with the weight of all the tears she has refused to shed, and James, as if he has no control of himself, pulls her towards the shelter of his body. 

“It’s okay,” she hears him mumble, vaguely, his words lost in the sound of her gasps and the steady hum of the rain, “it’s gonna be okay.”

* * *

She must fall into sleep without realizing it—a restful one, if her steady heartbeat is anything to go by, the way the inside of her head feels less heavy. The rain is at barely a drizzle now, but she hears it, drip, drip, dripping down the glass doors, feels the late afternoon sun on the foot that’s peeking out from beneath the bedcovers. She’s not certain how she made it into bed until she opens her eyes and sees him asleep at her side, his body at a respectable distance from her own, one arm flung over his forehead.

There’s still an ache, it rushes through her veins, and it makes the joints in her knees hurt, but it’s muted. The way it had overwhelmed her every thought the last few days is finally gone, and although she knows that the road from grief is a long one, her heart beats with hope at the thought of him being at her side.


	2. 08.17.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I got that hot-take on some “morning after the celebration sex,” (i.e., The Game Changer™, 3-0-fucking-9) comin’ straight at yer peepers._

On her hypothetical list of things that should never be taken for granted (a list she had begun in her head when she was old enough to understand the necessity of being grateful for the most trivial of things), being slow to wake is most assuredly ranked as one of the highest. It might seem strange to some, but to a person who has been known to wake frequently upon a gasp—to a racing heart and a heated face, as if caught in the throes of a fever… well. It’s surprisingly difficult to effectively describe a comparative feeling of relief to the slow, calm awareness of returning to one’s body without fear. 

The morning following their first decisive win in Phoenix, Teresa Mendoza wakes up in stages.

* * *

Stage 1: Silence. Marvelous, how the brain can register the absence of noise when it is barely cognizant of the fact that it is awake. Of course, complete silence is an impossibility. There’s always some form of noise which allows the silence to be observable at all. The silence is punctuated by a muffled wind beyond the windows; the soft, gentle ticking of a clock; slow, even breaths. When you wake at a slower pace, you are afforded the luxury of drawing an obvious conclusion from each observation as they arise. No need to panic. Your heart is beating, as it should, comfortably, inside your chest. Do you remember the wind against the windows? The wind against the windows means shelter—safety from the elements. The clock is ticking and time is passing, but you’re not worried about it moving from one minute to the next, because after the clock you could hear his breath, which brings you to—

Stage 2: Warmth. Smooth, warm flesh that leeches into your own skin, which is also bare. The body beneath your cheek rises and falls at an even keel, not unlike your own heart. It’s how you know he’s still asleep. There’s the hint of a hand against your back, and it’s warm there too. A feather light touch that reminds you of the evening before. How his hands had been…  _everywhere_. How they had felt in your hair, around your waist, beneath your thighs and now, just—warmth and stillness. You wait, patiently, for his heartbeat to quicken, to have some sign that he’s waking up too, when you realize—

Stage 3: Pain. Not the kind of pain that throws you into a panic. Not the kind of pain you might feel waking up in chains, shackled to a ceiling. Just an ache or two. One of them pleasant, the other not so much. You focus on the more annoying sensation first, and realize that it is emanating from your hip, because your hip is digging into the floor, which is not carpeted, and therefore a bit harsh on the bonier parts of your anatomy. Still on the floor. Never made it to the bed. Flashes of briefly falling onto the sofa only to quite quickly tumble to the floor and onto his lap, with your pants shoved down to your ankles and his arms tight about your waist and that’s when you consider the pleasant ache. The memory of the top of his head between your legs and, oh, that would no doubt account for the slight twinge of pain where her thighs rest together—like a sunburn you can’t quite bring yourself to regret.

* * *

When she finally opens her eyes the room is still dark, and she smiles at the realization that there is still enough time to return to sleep. She doesn’t want to wake him, but as her hip is really starting to annoy, she does her very best to make it as enjoyable for him as possible. With a kiss to his chest, a hand brushing against his belly she feels his heart beat faster, and before  _he_  can awaken on a gasp of his own, she speaks—

“James,” whispering, her own voice swallowed up by the pre-dawn silence, “let’s move to the bed.”

He grunts, and despite the absurd fact that the sound of it seems to have made its way directly betwixt her legs as if it had no other place to go (of course, where else would it go), she laughs and sits up, trying and failing to move his dead weight with her.

“ _Please_ ,” she asks again, doing her very best not to be charmed by the grumpy, tired man-child routine, “I promise you’ll thank me in a few hours.”

After a few more minutes of gentle coaxing they both manage to stand, stumbling towards her unmade bed, falling into the soft sheets with mutual sighs and groans of appreciation. Not quite so young as they used to be—one too many scrapes and bruises.

He manages to speak a few words into her neck, something that translates into asking after the time, and when she answers with, “A little after five,” he sighs again and pulls her closer. His knees bend to fit into the backs of hers, his arm wrapping around her waist as if it had never left. He presses a soft, barely-there kiss to her neck, and she can feel herself being pulled back into the blissful unawareness of sleep. She thinks, briefly, about that list she’s never put to paper, and considers including James’ name somewhere close to the top. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of a few incoming fic requests that I'm taking on **[@floresdeldoza](https://floresdeldoza.tumblr.com/)** until tomorrow night (8.18.18).


	3. 08.24.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I gotta admit, I was a little intimidated by this request, and I wasn’t certain I was gonna be able to do it. However, I got an opening scene stuck in my brain and figured I’d give it a shot. This’ll take place a couple years after S3, but before she really becomes “The Queen,” as we’ve come to see her in S1-3 visions. **TW for discussion of unplanned pregnancy and abortion. There will be no explicit description of the procedure, as the ultimate decision re: the pregnancy will remain ambiguous.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FR: "Would you write a story where Teresa gets pregnant with James' kid and has to decide if she has an abortion (because of the dangerous life they lead) and how she tells James about it?"

There’s a haunted quality to a 24 hr. pharmacy. Particularly late at night, when the humming fluorescent lights cast a harsh, eerie glow over the pale, tired employees. After midnight, the voices on the radio sound a bit crazed and desperate as opposed to well-caffeinated and enthusiastic—instead of offering up some well-intentioned advice they so often love to dispense, you half expect them to start admitting to dark, long-buried secrets that will leave you, the person who should also be asleep, sufficiently horrified and left to wonder whether you will ever sleep again.

Teresa Mendoza stands alone in an aisle of female unmentionables. The aisle that most men ignore. The aisle that most women dread. She sighs.

* * *

Late August in Brooklyn is warm and damp—like a stifling, concrete swamp. If there is a breeze, even a weak, useless one, it’s obstructed by all the tall, imposing structures that disappear into the end-of-summer smog that hovers over a suffering city. As soon as Teresa leaves the safety of her air-conditioned, pre-war apartment, her chest grows tight with the heat, and for a moment she struggles to draw breath. Of course, that could easily be attributed to the steady panic attack she’s been having since 9 AM that morning.

 As she walks towards the corner pharmacy, she manages to take very brief comfort in the faces of drawn indifference that trudge by; all of them seemingly possessed by similar, zombie-like urges that compel them towards their various destinations. This late at night, or rather, this early in the morning, it can be challenging to keep oneself from slipping into some kind of dream-state that your body would very much like to be in despite the fact that you have forced it into dreaded, ill-advised wakefulness.

Teresa, however, has never been so painfully awake. Her phone vibrates in the deep pocket of her sweatpants; a few sizes too large because they’re  _his_ , and sometimes in moments of dreaded vulnerability she puts on the clothes he’s left behind as if they’re both in high school and she’s got something to prove—like soft, impractical armor that smells like him and makes her think of a simpler life she’s not certain she has ever, or will ever, have.

In fact, it’s part of the reason why this—the reason she’s standing beneath unflattering lights at 3 AM, trying to ignore the shrill, unhinged laughter over the radio—is such a goddamn  _problema_. Because she has not chosen a life of simplicity. There is no hypothetical future where the two of them will reluctantly admit to one another that, “Ya know, even though it’s not a good time right now, we would’ve gotten here eventually, and I love you and you love me, and hey, kiddo, let’s just  _do this thing,”_ like you might see on some predictable television sitcom. No. She’s not quite certain how this will go, but she does know that it won’t sound a thing like  _that_.

* * *

A part of her is overwhelmed with a somewhat desperate compulsion to tell the young, severely bored-looking cashier that she’s the unrivaled leader of one of the world’s most powerful drug organizations. Wants to casually mention the fact that she has more money than Jeff- _fucking_ -Bezos. That she owns properties in over a dozen countries, and she can take a private jet to any one she wants, whenever she wants. It’s because it’s funny in a way that physically  _aches_. The fact that you can be one of the most powerful women in the world, and still wind-up at a 24 hr. pharmacy hours before sunrise, in your boyfriend’s pants, buying a handful of pregnancy tests and a pint of ice cream she probably won’t even eat.

“You have a rewards card?” the girl asks in a flat, apathetic tone, her gaze falling somewhere over Teresa’s shoulder.

Shaking her head, no, quite suddenly feeling that if she doesn’t leave this counter  _immediately_ , her body  _will_  catch fire and she will be burned to ash in the middle of this cursed place where no one ever  _wants_  to be, but a place they  _have_  to be, and all it does is remind them of the inevitable monotony their lives have become, until, finally, one day—

“ _Ma’m_ ,” the girl interrupting the swirling chaos of her thoughts for what seems to be the second time, “do you need your receipt?”

Again, shaking her head no, grabbing the bag off the counter and sprinting out the door, back into the swamp, ignoring the way her phone won’t stop buzzing in her pocket.

* * *

James is still in Canada. It’s probably cooler there. At least, she likes to imagine it is. She’s sitting on the toilet with his sweatpants around her ankles, waiting to just freaking pee already, wondering if she should drink some more water, thinking about the way his face had looked before he’d left the last time. How even after all these years he still manages to look at her as if she is the most precious thing he’s ever seen—like he’d be willing to die for her. And in the years since they first met, he almost has, multiple times, in fact. It’s part of the reason why she sends him away  _at all_ , grasping at straws in their pathetic attempts at pretending he means nothing to her or her business. Just another handsome, well-paid goon.

“I’ll see you soon,” he had said, soft and with a smirk, grasping her chin and tugging her lips towards his, “be careful.”

As parting  _is_  quite often “such sweet sorrow,” she makes a somewhat weak attempt at playfulness in order to break the unbearable tension that occurs whenever one of them must leave the other. “I’m always careful,” is what she starts to say, only to be quickly interrupted by a heartbreaking, “Please.”

It had been an abrupt end to their banter that left her feeling haunted by that look on his face—the way he had held her in that empty stairwell before he’d walked out the door; the way he’s often held her as of late, like he’s afraid to let her go.

She’s moved on from her extended toilet vigil to the lip of the tub, staring at the patterned tile beneath her feet, when her phone buzzes in her pocket. She knows she should probably say something _._ If she doesn’t at least text back, he’ll get on a plane and be on her doorstep before noon, but she can’t bring herself to do it—to exchange words with him when he is so woefully unprepared for the reality of their current situation. 

 _Maybe it’s better this way_ , she thinks, glaring at the white piece of plastic where it rests on the countertop, holding her goddamn fate in it’s metaphorical hands. Vaguely, she acknowledges the faint hum of the television in the other room. Watches the blue, flickering light from the bedroom move beneath the bathroom door. Sighs and feels as if she’s barely breathed at all.

 _Maybe it’s better_ , she thinks, again, ignoring the obvious heftiness of this particular moment, wondering if she’ll ever forget it—the television, the tile under her feet, the smell of his cologne lingering,  _I’ll have to tell him eventually._

* * *

He shows up on her doorstep an hour or two before noon, and he brings a storm in his wake. When she opens the door, staring at the tips of his boots, she takes a brief moment to hope for the cooler weather that might soon follow.

“Where have you been?” he asks, pushing past her towards the stairs, too blinded by his worry to even notice the drawn, exhausted look on her face even when he’s standing right in front of her. Brenda had always complained about how tired she’d been those first few weeks. Dios, how she misses Brenda now.

“I had it on silent,” she explains without much gusto, her lie sounding flat even to her own ears. The sharp smirk on his face is evidence enough of that.

“I thought we were past this,” tossing his duffle onto the couch, wandering over to the window and inspecting the darkening sky, “the lying to each other.”

It’s hard to believe she could feel even worse than she’d felt before he arrived, but with the advent of his worry, his boots, the fat, heavy clouds in the sky, she is suddenly bowled over by the pain his voice. By the sudden understanding that he has spent the last few hours immersed in a sickening flood of doubt—of wondering if he had kissed her for the last time; been loved by her for the last time.

“ _James_ ,” she finds herself pleading but unable to unstick her feet from the floor, hoping that he’ll know to return to her simply by the sound of her voice, and to absolutely no surprise, he  _does_. The sadness dissolving into confusion, into concern, into  _love—_ she chokes back a whimper.

“We made a mistake.”

He walks towards her at a less frantic pace, his hands tugging gently on her elbows, “Teresa _—_ ”

She knows him well enough to know he’s about to attempt to calm her _—_ to soothe a worry that he probably assumes is business-related. That they trusted the wrong person, lost the wrong shipment, any number of life-threatening eventualities the likes of which they have often come to expect. And quite honestly, Teresa  _wishes_  it were as simple as that.

“I’m pregnant.”

It doesn’t seem possible, but in the thick silence that follows, thunder rumbles behind it. Ominous, overbearing,  _absurd_. “How is that…?”

“I don’t know,” soft, barely audible, “but I am.”

His face, at any other time, a delightful thing to read, has retreated into an unknowable place. She hates it.  _Come back to me_ , she thinks, even though she knows he deserves at least a few moments to escape back into the time before this was the truth—into his very own version of herself at 8 AM the morning before. Before she’d noticed the full box of tampons in her cabinet.

She wonders if, like her, the reason it hurts is because he knows they cannot have it. If he is angry at himself the way she had been, for allowing themselves to arrive this close to a thing they had silently agreed to never so much as cautiously approach, and now, here it was—inescapable.

His voice, when he finally speaks, breathes new life into her bones, and she allows him to pull her towards the couch, “Come here.”

“I know what I  _should_  do,” she starts, avoiding his gaze in order to anxiously pick at the dirt she imagines has clung to his jeans, “but I don’t know if it’s what I  _want_  to do.”

For the first time, she wonders if she is truly as powerful as she had come to think.  _If we get enough of it_ , had been her mantra,  _power, then no one can touch us._  And it was true, for a while. But now, when it was most important, she was not altogether certain that it had  _ever_  been true. If they were to go through with this, the target on their backs would grow. The risks they took would be greater, and it wouldn’t just be  _their_  lives anymore. Lives that they had ultimately  _chosen_. Any child of theirs would not have the luxury of such a choice.

“Por favor,” she asks,  _please_ , “tell me what you’re thinking.”

* * *

He’s thinking of the way blood pools on top of sand. The painful, eerie echo in the moments following a grenade blast. The feeling of someone’s life rushing from their flesh in red, wet violence.

Teresa’s lips against his cheek for the first time. The way she had held him to her, knowing that in that moment he was too wounded to do anything other than shy away from the comfort she offered. How her heart yearned to protect others who could not protect themselves—even when she barely knew them. How she looked in sleep. The sound of her laugh, more frequent than it used to be.

All of these things and more, the violent things and the soft things, all of them mashed together into an incomprehensible, fucked up mess inside of his head. And when she speaks he remembers a moment, months ago, when he had caught her watching a young girl and her mother—the way they had laughed together. The way the little girl had tugged on her mother’s hand, pulling the two of them further and further away. Teresa had never actually spoken of it, but he had seen it on her face. The wanting. Even if she didn’t know it herself at the time, he had seen it, and once again, that familiar urge to give her everything she wanted, it rushed through his veins like an addicting, dangerous high.

Of course, he had never planned  _this_.

* * *

“I want you to be happy,” he answers, finally, wrapping his hand around hers where she fidgets against his knee, “whatever you want, Teresa.”

“But what if I don’t know what I want?” she asks, just barely containing the panic that has started to creep it’s way into her voice, “I don’t deserve—”

Cradling her face between his hands, he catches the tears she hadn’t even known were falling. “Stop,” he interrupts, “I know it doesn’t matter what I say, but Teresa you have to know, you deserve  _everything_.”

If she wasn’t so overwhelmed by the quick, painful beating of her own heart, she would reassure him of the fact that of course it matters what he says—that everything he says  _matters_. That she takes his words, no matter what they are; his counsel, his love, the inconsequential bits that string words into sentences, that she  _holds_  them. Keeps them close in the moments when he is not. But instead she finally,  _finally_ , gives in to the demands of her body, wracked with nerves, with exhaustion, sobbing and falling into his chest with all the weight of the last few hours.

Against his chest she can feel his voice reverberating through her own, “okay, okay, okay,” reassuring her that somehow all of this, this thing that she had never thought possible, how it would all turn out okay in the end. No matter what. Half-asleep, lifted into his arms, the feeling of him wrapped around her, holding her so tightly that it almost  _hurts—_

“James,” she whispers while she’s still able, feeling consciousness slip away, her body grasping for sleep, “what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” speaking the words into the crown of her head, “but I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

In a moment so brief, so transient, she will have no other choice but to question her memory of it later, she feels it—the tentative touch of his hand against her abdomen; a hello and perhaps a goodbye all at once, she places her hand over his, and the world is lost.


	4. 08.29.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _THIS IS THE CUTEST **FUCKING** PROMPT, SO THANK YOU. I’m gonna say this takes place at some unspecified point after James shows up in S3 and begs Teresa to take his stubborn ass back and then lets her move into his goddamn house. Obviously. O B V I O U S L Y ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FR: "Hi! Congrats on the follower milestone! I have a jeresa prompt for you. Maybe a happy, tipsy James saying cute things to Teresa? I don't really have a preference on a setting or anything. Sorry this is so vague, but I could see him being an adorable drunk :)"

By some chance of fate or circumstance, Teresa has never actually had the opportunity to experience James in a state of unrepentant  _drunkenness_. If she takes a moment to carefully consider all the time they’ve spent together, she can quite confidently conclude that while she has seen James  _drink_ , she’s never actually witnessed the intended consequences of such a thing. No, if memory serves, he would usually disappear before that could actually happen. It’s almost sad really, to have known him all this time and to think, from her perspective at least, that he’s been steadily, painfully sober this entire time. 

She wonders if it’s a military thing—a remnant of time served that has left him more disciplined than most. Or perhaps something to do with the vulnerability that comes with having imbibed just a little bit too much—the chances that you’ll say or do something you’ll regret increasing exponentially with every sip.

* * *

Maybe that’s why the first time she sees him get well and truly hammered, it’s because he’d already come to her on his knees. Maybe he figures there’s nothing left to lose. The fact that he’d gotten on a plane at all revealed a hand she wasn’t prepared to decipher. Let alone the pleading, wounded look on his face, asking her to forgive him—to “let him in.” For James, she knows it doesn’t get much more vulnerable than that. What more could he possibly do or say that would further convey the depths of the humility he’s shown in the last few weeks?

Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that they’re in his house. This gorgeous, minimalist structure that he’d chosen and to some extent  _designed_. It had awoken in her an unexpectedly pleasant feeling. To discover a new, undeniably charming aspect of his character. Something decidedly non-violent, not laced with yet another piece of dark, impermeable personal history that leaves her spiraling, aching for more. No, all it really does is endear her to the fact that James craves safety—that he loves windows; that he wants to feel free and safe all at once. It feels familiar.

They’re in his house, alone (aside from the armed guards wandering around somewhere, sight unseen), drinking some favorite, dark liquor of his, sitting out by the pool as the sun sets behind them, and at some point she begins to notice the softness of his gaze—how his posture has suddenly slackened; how his words feel a little less deliberate. How he keeps staring at her hands wrapped around her glass.  _Is this it?_  she thinks, trying to keep from grinning,  _Is this the James with nothing to hide?_

A drunk James allows his laughter to escape in a way that sober James does not. She’s heard James laugh before, but it’s almost always laced with bitterness or disbelief—the chuckle she hears now, quiet and quick, is devoid of nothing but good humor. It is laughter for the sake of laughter. Drunk James throws his hood over his head and burrows into his sweatshirt like a teenager. She has to actively ignore the sudden, all-consuming fantasy that occurs in her own head—how it would probably fall to just above her knees. How it would be warm with his heat, or how it might smell like his aftershave. He’d give it to her if she asked, she knows, but she’s worried about breaking the spell they seem to have fallen under.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” is what she says instead, taking another fortifying sip of her own drink.

He laughs, “You mean  _without_  the stick up my ass?”

“No,” nudging his shoulder playfully, “happy.”

“I’m…  _happy_ ,” he insists with a somewhat comical frown, his nose twitching in painfully familiar way. What he says next, it’s quiet and mumbled, so, she wonders if she’s heard it at all, but she could swear it was something like, “I like being around you.”

But there’s this same fear that she’d felt earlier—that exposing him to the truth of what he’s revealed will only send him back towards whatever place he had retreated in the past. Before he drank himself into a compromising position that could’ve put his  _life_  at risk. She can’t really blame him. A sharp, bitter anger towards Camila Vargas rises in her throat as if it were bile and she finishes off the rest of her drink in an attempt to ignore the sound of the woman’s voice in her head.

“You alright?”

While the look of him in his hood had been cute and all, transforming him into some petulant, drunken teenager, the look of him with it suddenly removed—the way his hair sticks in all directions, how his face has morphed into a look of concern she’s seen quite a few times before—this is worse. Harder to resist.

“Your hair is a mess,” she says, quiet, reaching out to try and tame the wayward strands. It’s the first time she’s actually touched his hair. She’s already begun to memorize the feel of it, as if she’ll never get another chance to do so again.

He grunts, sniffs—his eyes are halfway closed, and she’s begun to think he’s fallen asleep when he speaks again, only somewhat less coherent than before, “I like your hair,” she freezes. “It’s pretty.”

“Thank you,” she answers, slowly, yet again unsure if she’s actually heard him correctly. Forcing herself to keep her wayward hands away from his head for the time being, lest she do something  _really_  stupid like kiss him. Which she suddenly realizes, to her growing horror, is something she almost desperately wants to do in this moment.

After a few minutes of largely comfortable silence, wherein they listen to chirping crickets and the pool water lapping against the concrete, she makes the, what she believes to be, wise decision to remove herself from the dangerous situation she seems to have gotten herself in. “I should head to bed,” she starts, standing and stretching her back, “will you be alright out here?”

What had only moments ago felt like a wise move becomes almost immediately laced with regret at the sight of his somber expression. “Yeah,” he replies, grabbing her hand where it hangs near to his face, which would’ve been bad enough, but it’s when he tugs her a bit closer, just enough to rest his forehead against the back of it, that her heart stops. “ _Thank you._ ”

It’s the safest form of gratitude he could offer. Easily confused for her immediate concern, the question of whether or not he’d be okay out here on his own, but it’s the earnestness, the way his voice sounds rougher than usual, that she feels the enormity of his words. She’s overwhelmed with the sudden urge to cry, but manages to release a breath instead, realizing that she’s been holding it for longer than she thought.

“You’re welcome,” is what she manages to say, instead of the tears, instead of placing a gentle, torturous kiss to the top of his head.

He pulls away suddenly, dropping a swift, instinctive kiss to the back of her hand before returning to the drink he’s left alone too long, “Good night.”

“Night,” she answers,  _somehow_ , blinking once, twice, trying to find her way back to the reality that existed before she’d heard his laugh, or felt his hair, or his lips against her skin.

She sighs once more before finally retreating back into the house—smells the chlorine on the air, feels the burn of the alcohol like an echo in the back of her throat, and does her very best not to hope.


	5. 09.03.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I believe this was requested before 3x11 actually aired, which is pretty bold imo, but I think all of us could use a little post-episode therapy in order to make our peace with 3x11 and prepare our souls for what comes next._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FR: "Can you write a Jeresa fic please?I would love to read James’s POV 3x11❤️"

In the hours following the somewhat sickening, ghoulish appearance of Kelly Anne’s reddish hair peeking out from beneath the dirt, he drives into the desert. It’s after his painful back-and-forth with Teresa; his potentially ill-advised conversation with Camila. He’ll be back—it’s not as if he has the willpower to stay away from Teresa for very long. Even after it’s been made quite obvious to him that he’s failed to clear the illusory bar they’ve managed to set; hoping he’ll meet their expectations (wondering to himself if it’s even humanly possible to do so). Regardless, he’ll be back.

* * *

It’s impossible to find a radio station in Arizona that will play anything other than fucking country. It’s what he’s forced to half-listen to as he drives, on and on and on, watching the lights of the city fade into the distance. With the windows down he can hear chirping insects, the wind whipping past as he picks up speed.

He lights yet another cigarette and tries not to think of her face. They’ve only been together a handful of times, but somehow he’s not quite sure how to live without it now—the closeness. Predictably, he’s not really the type to devote more than a few seconds to self-examination. He’s found it to be an unnecessarily agonizing, ultimately useless exercise that ends with him winding up at the bottom of a bottle. The one time he had attended insurance-mandated therapy after he’d returned home the last time he’d found himself getting so agitated he very nearly popped the doctor right in his smug face. Not that the guy had been wrong.

He relishes in the burn of the smoke filling his lungs and pulls off the road, driving a couple miles through the sand until the road is no longer visible in his rearview. When the car stops running and the music is cut abruptly off, he’s almost overwhelmed by the silence that engulfs him. He stares up at the stars, gazes into a seemingly infinite horizon made of dirt, cacti, rocks—licks his lips and tastes smoke, blood.

 _Think about it logically, Mr. Valdez_ , the therapist’s lecturing East Coast voice murmuring inside his head,  _how could you possibly taste the blood anymore? After the shower and the drive?_

It doesn’t  _fucking_  matter does it? Because he fucking does, and it makes him feel sick. He should’ve bought some food before he made this spontaneous road trip into ill-advised isolation.

 _You shouldn’t be alone_ , the doctor drones on,  _it’s too easy to lose yourself in your thoughts when you get like this._

Likewhat? Self-recriminating? Impulsive? Lonely? Desperate?  _No one_  wants to be around a person feeling sorry for themselves. Not to mention he can’t stand being so close to Teresa when he’s unable to touch her—not anymore. Not after knowing what it’s like; not after he had finally gotten a taste of what it might be like to casually touch her, to offer a kiss or an embrace that doesn’t need to act as a precursor to sex. Intimacy without an ulterior motive, a non-charged, physical reminder of companionship that he thought they’d come to have. Until he’d felt her tense in his arms, had begun to think with renewed confidence that something had happened in Bolivia she hadn’t told him.

He can’t blame her for being suspicious, but, honestly, it still  _hurts_. That they’ve come so far and they’re still  _here_. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, predicts and is still surprised to see Teresa’s name.

There’s a text, another apology, “I’m sorry.” His fingers hover over the screen before he shoves it back into his pocket, angry at himself for even beginning to answer. The hurt, petty part of him hoping she’s just as adrift as he is, pacing about in  _his_  house, wondering if she’s finally pushed him away for good. It should make him feel better, the thought of her torturing herself, but it only makes him feel worse.

There’s a voice in his head again, only this time it’s in her soft, unabashed speech—the way she says certain things, like there’s not a doubt in her mind,  _You’re a good person, James._

He flicks the cigarette into the dirt, squishes the tip of it beneath his boot and  _hates her_. Hates her for making him remember who he was before he enlisted, why he enlisted—the naive imaginings of an idealistic boy who had wanted to be a hero like his grandfather had been. Hates her for making him think that there’s a way out of the cave; for convincing him that maybe they could guide each other out of the darkness. Not with the taste of this blood in his mouth. Of Kelly Anne’s whimpering in his ear,  _“Take care of her for me.”_

He’s not sure he’s a good person, but he knows Teresa is. Know that this isn’t what she wanted. He spares one more glance towards the stars, gets back in his car, and drives homeward.


	6. 10.21.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is a little James introspection from the S3 finale. It’s a bit of a bummer, unfortunately. **[I’ll post another “Happily Ever After” mood board](https://floresdeldoza.tumblr.com/post/177507252820/q-o-t-s-h-a-p-p-i-l-y-e-v-e-r-a-f-t-e-r)** to make up for it though._

He wants to stay. The urge to stay in this room, with her, it is so painful a thing that for a brief moment he wonders if he’s been shot. A higher, smaller version of his own voice echoes in his ears,  _But why? Why can’t I stay?_  And perhaps it is his mother who answers, for however much he will occasionally wonder if he has finally forgotten the sound of her voice, perhaps it is her who answers:  _Because I wanted what was best for you._

He knows that she will survive—that’s not what worries him. Ever since he’d watched her dry-heave in an airport storage closet, he’s become less concerned at the prospect of her physical demise. Teresa Mendoza knows how to stay alive. At least to the extent that her heart will continue to beat; that her skin will flush, that she will sweat, eat,  _breathe_. That she will satisfy what needs to be satisfied in order to keep a hold of her own body. A body he  _loves_ , and really, there’s little point in hiding from it now. He wants to be clear—it is not so much a matter of not caring for her body as it is a matter of prioritizing what needs to be cared for.

That was something he’d learned being a soldier. It is of absolute necessity that you have  _priorities_. And when it comes to Teresa, one of the things he has sworn to protect above all others has been her heart. Her soul. He’s not religious, but he’s seen enough violence to know that there are pieces of human beings that have a tendency to disappear if they’re not well looked after. Most people have a softness that they too easily forget to protect. And since the first time he saw her, he has watched that light inside of her become dimmer.

It was something he had made clear to her from the very start. That getting in too deep with this business was a mistake, that this life changed people, and usually not for the better. It was something that he had, admittedly, been somewhat calmed to see, as with a hardening of her heart came the likelihood of her survival. But this feeling of relief, as he would come to realize, was a selfish one. At some point along the way, he had lost sight of her heart, and he didn’t quite know how to get it back.

* * *

James did what he does best, he pulled that trigger on Kelly Anne; a woman that Teresa had at one time  _sworn_  to protect, and it was when he had returned home that night, had spotted Teresa sitting alone at the kitchen table with a half-empty bottle of tequila in her hand, that he realized his mistake. That he had lost sight of his priorities.

“That was a mistake,” is what he  _should_  have said. “What you asked me to do—it was a mistake.” But apparently love had made him a coward, and he had only plucked the bottle from her hand and taken a swig himself. Had dragged her upstairs to their bed and made her forget, when really he should have been making her remember— _this wasn’t how she had wanted to do things._

And even then, even in his state of silent epiphany, he had said nothing. In the days and weeks that followed, watching her simultaneous rise and dissolution, wondering if his being there was doing more harm than good. He’d even taken steps towards leaving, having convinced himself that he was nothing more than a weak, enabling, love-sick fool. But then she’d apologized; offered him a real leadership position within this thing they’d all built together, and yet again, had felt himself weakening. 

It wasn’t until he was ambushed by Devon and his goons, pulled over on the side of the road, the implication of a gun being held to his head that he realized he could stop being a selfish prick for once in his life and do the right thing—be  _brave_ , like he had always told himself he was. He could do this. This one thing. For her. If he couldn’t protect her heart, if he had become too entrenched in the warmth of it, he would protect her body—her business, the thing that had crawled it’s way into her right along with him. In his failure he had relinquished his own selfish desires for love, companionship, power. But  _this_  he could do. And he would. For her.


End file.
